James did something he rarely did ever. He smiled.
“We will save that best news for last.”
In the moonlight, theking’s face shone bright enough for all the men to see by.
“Truly? Ye heard them say that the Hammer is dead? That his son now reigns?”
Shabib bowed his head. “Yes, milord. The milquetoast son is now King Edward the Second.”
Bruce’s dark eyes caught James’s, and he threw back his head, a burst of laughter exploding up from his chest.
“Och, the Lord is good. This is a sign for Scotland, ‘Tis surely. God must bless our endeavor for a free Scotland, for why else did he send Longshanks to his death?”
“The weak king, he will still wager a war if for nothing else than to try to claim greatness on his father’s back,” James reminded him.
The Bruce flapped a dismissive hand. “True. And we are weary of war. But the lad is no’ the commander his father was, and he will need time to regroup. We will take advantage of the change in power, decimate these MacDoualls, and then reclaim the lowlands before heading north. We yet have a war ahead of us, only now ‘tis one I have no doubt we can win.”
“Och, ye had doubts before?” Declan MacCollough asked.
The Bruce nodded his head — honesty was one of his more esteemed character traits. “Aye. I have confidence we shall cut a swath through these English, yet I’m a man just as ye. I’ve had many doubts over the past winter. Now, with ye men leading my army and the Hammer of the Scots dead and cold, most of those doubts have fled.”
The king’s positive attitude was infectious, spreading amongst the men as readily as a summer breeze.
“Now, I believe Douglas had his plan for us. What has your black heart designed for the attack on the morn?”
With that, the elated attitudes of the men dissipated, replaced by extreme focus on James as he drew in the dirt with a stick under the flickering light of a low torch.
By daybreak, the Bruce, James, and their men gathered at the edge of the wood, waiting for their moment. The mood was familiar to James, but now that summer was high upon them, instead of a misty, damp gloom emerging with the sun, brilliant yellows burst forth onto the land. The shadows of the trees lay long on the grass, like gray carpets leading the men to their undertaking.
James lifted his left hand and waved. Two groups of men behind him, Shabib and Thomas included, broke off and crept to the north and south to surround the stronghold and ride in when the MacDoualls focused on what they believed to be a single eastern attack.
The strategy worked a brilliantly as they had hoped, and many men fell to their swords. James’s own sword drank the blood of the MacDoualls as a parched land drank water, and his ears were deaf to the dying cries of his enemies. He grimaced as another spurt of blood crossed his stained tunic, another testament to the Scots reclaiming their freedom.
But as they worked their way through the inner bailey, James’s spirits dropped. Not enough men were present, and Laird Dungal MacDouall was nowhere to be found. An old man they’d spared shared what he knew under threat of a slit throat by Thomas, whose hand held the man’s neck at his mercy.
“Nay, Laird Dungal departed two days past! For the MacCanns!” The old man gasped, the blade at his neck drawing a thin line of blood.
The Bruce cursed in a low voice and turned in a rush. He thrashed at the hay cart by the gate as he stormed out, roaring his curses replacing his hushed tone.
Shabib’s eyes cut to James, who shrugged. Then his stony glare returned to the man who held no compunctions of sharing his clan’s secrets. James gave a quick nod of his head, and with an easy swipe of his arm, Thomas ended the old man’s treasonous misery.
James directed Thomas and the rest of the men to secure the keep before he and Shabib rejoined the king. His helm-covered head was bowed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Ye spied on the keep and no’ a one said that Dungal was no’ here?”
Shabib shook his head, his own gaze focused on his folded arm. “Nay, milord,” his deep voice intoned. “Perchance it explains why the men imbibed as heavily as they did. The cat was away so the mice did play.”
The reasoning made perfect sense, and mayhap the death of King Edward was why the Laird left early. The Bruce lifted his face. His brow was furrowed as if an ache thrummed behind his eyes. James understood that sensation well — he’d experienced something similar upon watching his own home burn.
“Shall we ride for the MacCanns? Find the bastard Dungal there?”
Robert stared into the distance, his eyes glazed in thought.
“I do. I want to ride for that fool and make him weep blood at my feet. Yet my vengeance must again wait. We have a larger need to take the lowlands from the grip of the English, and we can take advantage of the weak king’s distractions. If we come upon Dungal along the way, the mores the better. But for now, we return to Auchinleck and plan our next round of attacks.” The Bruce twisted where he stood to study James with his deep, sullen eyes. “I would have the lowlands returned to my control before the leaves change.”
James held the King’s gaze, trying not to notice how deep the lines ran from his eyes, how sallow his skin, the shadows haunting his cheeks. As he adjusted his sword and walked back toward the woods with several other men, a disconcerting notion crossed James’s mind — if this war killed the Hammer of the Scots, how long would their own king last before this war destroyed him?
